


A World Apart

by xmoomzix



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aristocracy, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Gold Rush, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Angst, Johnlock slow burn, M/M, Poverty, Protective John Watson, Street fighting, Virgin Sherlock, johnlock pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 18:42:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6295477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xmoomzix/pseuds/xmoomzix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock AU based off the movie 'Far and Away'. John Watson, a young man facing land eviction after his father's death, seeks revenge on his landlord 'Holmes'. Meanwhile, the landlords son, Sherlock, is growing fed up of the aristocratic lifestyle he is forced to live, longing to be 'free'. Two very different young men and their two very different world's collide, sending them off on a journey to the land of opportunity but.. it's not all plain sailing. </p><p>Eventual johnlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Chelms has a name and a road, and very little more. The vast majority of the dozen or so houses have scruffy thatched tops that are gradually turning green. A kid sits in the road, blending the earth with his fingertips while his mother keeps one eye on him and one eye on the linen she is hanging up on the line. Further down the road, happily intoxicated men and women hang off one another, hoarse laughter sifting through the resonances of the livestock - some which joyfully meander the road unmarked. Poverty is all the individuals here have known, most of their coin earned harvesting the land winding up in the pockets of the rich landlords that cripple them with taxes. Disease is also rife, the lack of sanitation a prominent factor - in just one year alone, the population had almost halved.

Despite such destitution, the people make the most of what they have. Especially a young man by the name of John Watson.

The Watson family share a shack of a building just outside of the village, on the top of a hill confronting the ocean. John, along with his elder sister Harry, work the land since their father can't - a combination of a bad heart and liquor addiction sees to that. Their potato harvest had once been sufficient to help them just scrape through the bills every month, but more recently the ever changing climate had seen their crops become less fruitful and now they are in debt. Soon the elder of the siblings enthusiasm on the homestead dropped and they had taken to drinking just as often as their father, leaving John alone to pick up the slack.

“Donnie!"

"What?"

"Would you look at my little brother? Slaving his ass off down there, ass-deep in mud..” A flask is lifted to a pair of thick lips, the liquid inside sloshing as Harry takes a swig of her ale. She watches with amusement as her sibling struggles to pull a cart of produce up the hill. The exertion is evident in the twisting of his features, the flush that paints his cheeks and neck. With each step his feet seemed to slide further back, the cart seemingly going nowhere fast. After exchanging a conspiring glance with her friend, Harry heads down to join John with Donnie at her heels.

“Hey-up Johnny-boy, I don’t know why ya bother.” Donnie flicks up a bit of mud with his foot. “Is it not enough you've ploughed all this bog.."

John barely looks at the two and continues to tug at the wooden cart which is sinking further into the mud by the second. It does little good to dwell on the fact that it is he who puts all the graft in. No matter how much he resents how his father and sister drink away their earnings, he just has to keep his head down and work. "My ambition  for the day is far greater than the pair of you. Been at the ale again?"

“Ambition?” Harry snorts, draining the flask and tossing it to her companion. "This is ambition? Breaking your back on land that doesn’t even belong to us? Oh John, you are funny! You and I both know this land belongs to Holmes."

Blue eyes darken and lips tug into a frown, John turns on the pair with a snarl. "Oh piss off the pair of ya, look there's a goat over there, go and improve your love life."

The elder two exchange another glance, seemingly making a silent agreement before they both step into John's personal space, backing him up against the cart. Now, neither Harry or Donnie are particularly large and although they had consumed enough alcohol to impair their judgment, it is still two versus one.

"I don't want to fight, there's work to do.” Johns tone is firm but  something in those eyes of his that promise something entirely different. It is no secret that the youngest Watson has a bit of a temper. His father likes to call it 'small man syndrome' but to anyone who knows of the family and their struggles, they simply see it as 'boy forced to grow up too soon’. It is little wonder he loses it at times. The other two are laughing as soon as the words leave his lips.  
Let them laugh..

Whilst the elder two hold their stomachs, John seizes the opportunity and barrells his full weight into them, taking them - and himself, down onto the ground. The moments that follow are a tangle of mud-caked limbs, fists, bellows and curses. Harry is no dainty lass and self-proclaimed ‘one of the lads’. On a sober day she could easily over-power her brother. In fact many of the village men know better than to make advances on her like they would any other girl. The last man who tried ended up with a chair pressed against his windpipe. 

“Harry! Lads! Your father’s hurt!"

Amidst the scuffle, the panicked tone of someone who John recognises as his fathers friend, penetrates, warranting the three to break apart and scramble to their feet. Sporting a split lip, John races ahead, heart hammering in his ears as he eventually catches sight of his father being carried into their house. This isn’t the first time that this scene has occurred. The relentless heavy drinking had often brought on a series of injuries and illness but today, something instinctively tells John that it is far more severe. 

"Da! What happened?!" John flocks to his fathers side, searching frantically for any sign of injury. There appears to be nothing out of the ordinary- no blood that he can see. There is of course a pungent stench of ale and urine, the mans eyes blown and skin crimson from drink.

"Yer da's a hero lad. He fought good, I’d say there was around thirty men! Armed they was, with murder in their eyes, one by one. Did it with his bare hands lad, ya ain’t seen nothin’ like it..  I got some of them too mind you..” Mike has been a lifelong friend of John Watson Sr and somehow he has managed to keep his feet on the ground and proved on many occasion that he is a reliable friend. Where he lacks however, is with his story-telling. Notorious for exaggerating and embellishing the truth, simply to bask in the attention and awe he gets in return. His intentions are harmless enough but at this point in time, John is compelled to ignore his tall stories.

"How do ya feel da?” He asks, smoothing a palm over his fathers brow and noting a high temperature.  

“John, John Johnny John.. my son.. I'm dying.."

“Please, you said that last time. Don’t make light of such -"  
"I'm dying!”  The barked exclamation is followed by a splutter of choking coughs.

John shakes his head. His heart tells him that his earlier instincts are right but his head.. he just doesn’t want to accept it. One look at Harry confirms that she already has. “You can't die, we need ya here da.." He swallows the lump in his throat, blinking away tears that sting the back of his eyes. His father is a drunk and had let his kids down more times than any decent folk could comprehend. John doesn’t recall ever having a hug from his father and kind words were few and far between. There are times when John is feeling particularly bitter that he could say he hates the man he calls ‘da. He is still his father regardless though and his imminent death is not something John had prepared for.

"What do ya need me for? John,  ya know, you’re.. you’re a strange lad." His father sighs and reaches out to pat his son's hand. Even that simple action seems a hard endeavour.  "You have ambitions,  I did when I was your age. Dreams though, in this corner of the world.. they end up in a glass of ale or stomped on by the rich folk."

Sniffing deeply, John shakes his head. That’s the whole problem. Everyone gives up. People give up all the time and nothing changes. The rich still prosper while the poor struggle on. "Not my dreams da. I'll have my own land some day. My own alone. Without land, a man is nothing but a slave to the rich. I refuse to live like this forever, I won’t stand for it!"

"Well John, ya gonna need a miracle but if ya make it and by God I hope ya do,  yer old da will be smiling down on ya from the heavens, that I will. Don't let anyone get in yer way. Follow yer dreams if ya must, cause there ain't nothin’ else. There ain't no other way. You too Harry. Ya need a miracle .. too."

It happens so suddenly. One minute their father is talking,  the next… gone. All the tired lines in his face are gone, the deep flush faded and John doesn’t recall ever seeing his father look so at peace. 

"God bless ya soul Watson." Mike takes off his hat as a sign of respect, but John doesn't see this for his head is bowed, a silent prayer mouthed for the man who brought him up, tears dripping from his chin and onto their hands.

"I'll bet we'll be able to sell a thing or two now that the old man's gone..”

There is no attempt to soften the statement and that only infuriates John more, spinning on his Harry and her ridiculous friend, outraged. "Don't you dare!" He hisses. "Our father's just died, don't you have any respect!?"

“John, he's left us with a huge debt on the land.." Harry tries to reason, her voice is absent of remorse.

"We'll settle the debt, if we work double time, we -"

"Grow the potatoes and pick them yourself then!  This land hasn't turned up a decent crop for years and it’s not going to start now John. Da’s right, yer heads up yer arse!"

Any further retorts are bitten back. Sadly, Harry has a point and John knows this but.. he has to try. He has to or what hope is there?

 

It's a particularly blustery day when the whole village follows in a procession as John, Harry, Donnie and Mike carry their father's coffin across the fields to prepare his burial. The wind whips up foam from the sea, hitting their faces and making the sombre walk even more difficult. There isn't a single person in the procession that didn't know their father and each wore an expression of sadness and loss. Indeed the head of the Watson household was well-known and well-liked. His presence in the local tavern would be sorely missed by many. 

John keeps his steely gaze fixed forwards, his fathers last words echoing in his mind. It doesn’t matter what Harry thinks and he could care less about what anyone else says either. When there’s a will, there’s a way - that’s what they say right? He will have his own land and he will fight tooth and nail for it if he has to. 

He almost doesn’t hear the distant thuds of galloping horses but when the sound does reach his ears, his head whips towards it, eyes narrowed as a troop of around fifteen men approach.

The landlords men..

"What dead man is this?” Leading the cavalry sits a man of an austere manner and a cruel curl in his lip. He glares at the procession with contempt, as if somehow the funeral is a grotesque display. John fleetingly catches his eye, stricken by his almost sinister appearance. He quickly averts his gaze.

"Keep walking lads, we're burying my father today." There is no way John is stopping for anyone.

“Oh that’s fine, do not answer but know that I represent Mr Timothy Carlton Holmes who by right of law, owns this land and all improvements upon it. Rent on this property has not been paid and you have been warned enough." A sheet of paper hits John in the face but he keeps walking, head down, unaware of the scenes about unfold behind him.

“Oi! The bastard's are burning our house!"

John first snaps his attention to Harry and then behind to where their house stands. Men on horses have quickly surrounded it and John watches in horror as burning torches are hurled onto the thatched roof and in through the windows. Some of the villagers turn to the scene, running and shouting as they make feeble attempts to fight the men off and save the house. It doesn't take a lot for the house to be engulfed in flames however and just like that, John looks on as his home.. his life, is reduced to ashes.

Nostrils flaring, he shifts his fathers coffin to rest more comfortably on his shoulder, ire burning in his eyes they follow the cavalry riding off out of sight. His head turns a fraction as he addresses the shaken villagers. "Where is this Holme landlord? I want justice. He’ll pay for what he's done."


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John embarks on his journey to seek vengeance on the landlord Holmes.

After their home was cruelly burned to the ground, both Harry and Donnie disappeared whilst John stayed up all night trying to salvage what he could. The damage was devastating. Not a single possession survived. All John has to his name are the clothes on his back and a few loose coins that he keeps in a pouch attached to his belt. The livestock would be divided between himself and his sister but their worth is not great.

The following day, after a long sleepless night, John is approached by Mike. The man had already had a few drinks by the smell of his clothes but his demeanour is quiet and cautious. The events of the previous day had shaken the village and though life continues as normal for most, the remnants of sorrow still linger like a dense fog. Of course every knows of the young Watson's vow of vengeance by now and Mike is no exception. He leads John to his barn to unveil a prized rifle - or so he claims. The thing looks like it's going to snap in John's opinion. He takes it regardless and practices holding it, resting the stock to his shoulder and lining up the sight. He imagines that he is aiming at Holmes.

"There's nothing I like more than the glow of murder in a young fellows eyes." Mike watches with a small smile on his lips. "It's got a bit of rust on it, a little wear and tear like.. but it's killed plenty of pigs and chickens in it's time which works out well for you. That Holmes is a pig and chicken in one I reckon. Aye, you ought to give him a proper taste of death. He won't know what's hit him."

John lowers the rifle and offers Mike a grin. "Aye, he'll regret crossing John Watson that's for sure!"

“I’d be careful about revealing your identity though, John. Those lot are a wily type, don’t let ‘em catch scent of your name. Don’t breathe a word of it to living soul once ya leave here, they’ll trace it back and I don’t want to think about what they’d do then lad."

Nodding, John can only agree. If he gets caught and punished, so be it. He won’t take the village down with him though, not a chance on gods green earth. Strapping the rifle to his back, John reaches out to shake the old friends hand and heads out to fetch the only mode of transport available here, his father's old donkey, Bella.

Riding through town a little while later turns out to be a difficult task. Bella seemingly doesn't like passengers which John supposes is fair. He can't remember the last time his father used Bella for anything other than pulling carts. It's embarrassing though. The old donkey kicks it's hind legs out in an attempt to throw him off and eventually succeeds, dragging the young man partway up the road before he can get on again - not a good time to be spotted by his sister, or anyone for that matter.

"Ha-ha! John can't keep hold of his ass!"

"There he goes, the hero of Chelms and his mighty steed!"

Their teasing encourages the gathering crowds to laugh at the scene, much to John's dismay but his steely resolve keeps his back straight and his jaw set firm. It would look rather intimidating had it not been for the mud smudged over one cheek and the tear in his pants.

"Blow the bastard's head off!"

"Go Watson!"

"Hey, do you even know which way to point a gun?” Harry takes the opportunity to stroll up alongside Bella, derision written all over her face. Unseen to John however, is a deeply buried hint of concern for her last and only living relation. Differences aside, she would like John to return home safe.

“Of course."

"He'll shoot himself in the balls I bet and come home hobbling in tears.” Donnie interjects with a hoot of mocking laughter.

With a sigh, John waves at the pair. "Goodbye Harry, goodbye Donnie." The fact that they are not close is somewhat comforting to John. They have absolutely nothing in common aside from their name and if the worse was to happen and he dies out there, the loss will not be great. Still, he can't help but wonder how things will change if he succeeds in his plan - should he come back alive. Would they change at all? Thankfully Bella seems to have settled now and John can leave the village behind and begin his journey.

The Holmes manor estate is at the heart of ten thousand acres of rural countryside and to get to it meant following the current road through several more small villages and settlements until he reaches a crossroad. John wonders how reliable Mike's information is however, particularly when night falls before he reaches a single tavern - aptly named a travellers tavern. Having been on the road for several hours and Bella needing rest, John decides now is as a good as time as any to take a break and wet his lips. He ties Bella up outside next to a trough and enters.

As soon as he steps over the threshold, heads turn and all eyes are on him. John remembers his manners and takes off his hat, "God bless all in this house."

Around him everyone lifts up their glass, "God bless you lad."

John seats himself at the bar and orders himself a bottle of stout. He may not be a drinker like his sister and his father was, but he does enjoy the odd hearty ale and it sure goes down well after travelling so far. As he drinks, he takes a good look around. All of the men in the tavern are his kind of people. Every weary line on their faces speak of hardship and labour. Taverns and public houses like this are a luxury in their lives and the only escape for most. It is little wonder many men and women give their lives over to drink when life for the poor is so dire. Eventually John's wandering gaze stops when it is met by another man sat a few seats up from him.

"From the north are ya?"

John shakes his head.

"Or perhaps the east?"

Remembering his conversation with Mike, John sets his bottle down and pins the stranger with a sombre look. "I prefer to keep my business to myself, if you don't mind.” It’s not that he has nothing against socialising and making new acquaintances but tonight he is on a mission, one that must be kept under wraps at all costs.

"Very wise lad, don't blame you.."

"God bless you, everyone!"

A sudden cool draught stirs the hairs on the back of his head and John turns as the door of the tavern closes behind the owner of the jovial voice, ready to raise his glass and return the greeting as is polite. Pausing mid-toast, John takes note that this customer is unlike anyone else here. This man is well-dressed and groomed. A tailor-fit suit, polished shoes and gold ring on his wedding finger. This man, didn't belong but everyone else seemed to greet him with familiarity.

 _I’m not in Chelms anymore.._ John reminds himself.

"Whiskey for everyone!" A round of applause and cheers fill the space as the well-dressed man slaps a hefty amount of coin on the counter top. John has never seen so much coin in his life. Well, he isn't going to turn down free whiskey..

John gulps down the rest of his ale and watches the vendor line up several glasses and fill them with whiskey. He’s sure the establishment will appreciate such business and wonders if this is a regular thing with the man being so well recognised. The conversation to his left catches his attention next.

"Oppressed. That's me." The well-dressed man addresses the tavern. "I live in a house that is dull and stuffy and to make things worse, I have a wife that doesn't allow me to drink."

A few sympathetic murmurs break out.

"I crave more excitement boys! If I had wings, I'd fly to the stars.. Do you know, as a lad, I was determined to live everyday like it was my last. Then I got married.."

"You still have your health Mr Holmes!"

Holmes?!

Slowly, John turns his head, regarding the wealthy man with new eyes. So this is the landlord Holmes?

Holmes must have caught his expression for he pauses to observe John with curiosity.

“Cheer up lad, you’re far too young to be brooding in your ale." Holmes continues to watch John, as if trying to place his face and failing to do so. "What brings you to this small chapter of the world?"

_Your head!_

"That ones keeping himself to himself."

"Ah. Then it can only be one of two things. Love or enterprise."

"It isn't love." John somehow manages to keep the venom from his tone. "Rest assured of that."

“You're a man of business then, like me. Let me tell you something though, it's brought me nothing but misery. I'm lost in a smog of commerce and compromise." Holmes grimaces. "I'd everything away for a bit of freedom."

_Misery? Misery?! You own half the country you ignorant, rich bastard!_

Johns eyes close for a moment, counting to ten silently in his head. It's a method he'd adopted to stop himself losing his temper. Now would not be a good time to murder a rich landlord.

"Freedom is a rarity in this world." He says instead.

Holmes seems to think about that, eyes moving from side to side and then nods his head, “Of course it is lad. I’m wondering if it exists at all."

"To a long and happy life.. Mr Holmes." John raise his freshly poured whiskey and tips it towards Holmes with a smile. A smile that holds many secrets. A dangerous smile to the keen observer.

"God bless you lad."

John isn't normally a whiskey drinker and this soon becomes apparent when several glasses later, he's stumbling out of the tavern ready to follow an equally inebriated landlord home. It's the early hours of the morning. It's dark. Somewhere in John's fogged brain, he is glad that Holmes is drunk because he is likely not to notice a young man and his donkey swaying around a few feet behind.

After a short while, Holmes stops to to relieve himself, singing away about some maiden and a ship. John sees this as an opportunity to shoot the man but he needs to get closer. Leading Bella by foot, he draws closer, ducking behind a bush and readying his rifle. He aims but his hands are very unsteady. He can't fuck this up though and he tells himself this over and over in his head. Biting his lip, his thumb hovers over the trigger and then, the next thing he knows, Bella is trying to get away. He tugs on the rein, quietly clicking his tongue but Bella has her mind set and being much stronger than he anticipated, pulls from Johns grip. He can only curse now as he watches his father's old donkey run off into the shadows, taking what supplies he had with her.

Turning back, Holmes has moved on.

John manages to catch sight of him again around the next bend but the opportunity to shoot has long gone. He can only follow until the road widens and the trees and and bushes lining it become more trimmed and uniform. When he slips in through some steel gates using the shadows for cover, John stops and almost sobers up.

_This isn't a house.. this is a castle.. ___

__Miles of manicured lawns, fountains and paved walkways, even in the dark John can see the place is magnificent. Four stories high, huge windows and balconies.. it's unbelievable._ _

__Wandering in further, John finds another building to the right side of the property and is astonished to find that they are stables. These stables are bigger than my old house! Probably more comfortable too! With that in mind, he decides to enter the stables and finds an empty to one to lay down and rest. The hay is a little itchy and the smell is awful but there is little more he can so until sunrise - that and the headache he's developing could do with disappearing._ _

__The horses don't seem to mind anyway._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time we will meet our lovely Sherlock ;)


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As promised, Sherlock is introduced. A shock encounter in the stables, a trigger pulled and one man down.

There is nothing more gratifying to Sherlock Holmes than riding across the lush green pastures that surround his father's estate. As the heir to the landlords empire, Sherlocks life consists of suffocating airs, graces and learning the business inside and out. Riding is his only respite. Of course, such activities are best done in the early morning at first light. The air is still crisp, the grass still dewed and there's an exhilarating sense of freedom - especially when he gallops over the crest of the hill with the wind whipping the hair off his face.

He'd been at it for over an hour when he decides it would be wise to slow down and walk back to the paddock - where his mother is waiting. Impeccable timing mother.. Sherlock clicks his tongue and guides his Fresian-bred stallion to the stables.

"Sherlock! I saw you galloping in the fields. You know how I feel about that, where is your dignity? You are a gentleman and that display does not reflect upon you well, you must always be civilised even when you ride." Mrs Holmes watches her son with disapproval. A woman born into wealth and aristocracy, she stands at head of the household - the matriarch; self-appointed since her husband's leisurely activities are heavily frowned upon. To her, proper etiquette and manners stand above anything else and where her husband is a little more relaxed in that respect, she makes up for it tenfold.

"It's quite alright mother, no one saw me."

" _I_ saw you."

"Yes mother."

Sherlock rolls his eyes as soon as his back is turned and dismounts, gathering the reins in his hands ready to lead his horse into the stable. Once inside he sighs, patting the horse's sleek neck. "I wish she would leave us alone Red." Shaking his head, he begins to strip the horse of it's saddle and bridle, hanging everything up before allowing him to enter his stall. With Red settled back in, Sherlock sits down on a stool to remove his riding boots, unaware of a pair of blue eyes watching him..

\--

John had woken up the following morning after a surprisingly good sleep. He had no idea what time it was but the sun was filtering through the slats of wood and the birds were in full song. Thankfully all traces of the previous nights headache had ebbed away and he is feeling refreshed and ready to carry out his plan.

He is about to make a move but has to stop. Someone is coming in and whoever it is has a horse with them. John can tell from the clip-clop of the hooves and the snuffling. As the stranger speaks to his horse, John silently presses himself against the wall, holding his rifle to his chest before sneaking a peek through one of the gaps. The person is young man and can't be much younger than him; tall, lean.. John bites his lip. The young man has just sat down and now he can see his face.

John feels his stomach flutter oddly. This person, this man is.. pretty? He frowns, 'pretty' is not a word he feels comfortable using, particularly when another male is involved but really, this man is unlike any other he has seen before. Growing up in the village, John was exposed to all manner of men: thick-skinned, calloused hands, hairy, muscled and sun-kissed.. but this man, from what he can see, is none of that. His features are sharp and almost feminine. John doesn't think he's seen such defined bone-structure in a man's face before. Even his hair is well-groomed and style - though there seems to be a stubborn kink at the hairline..

There's a creak as John leans a little too far and a pair of green-blue eyes snap in his direction, causing the blond to fall back onto his arse.

John holds his breath, grip tightening on his rifle. Something sails over the wall and lands next to him in the hay, disturbing the birds up in the rafters. Silence. Releasing his breath, he sags against the wall, relieved. The relief is short-lived however as suddenly four sharp-looking prongs splinter the wood inches from his face causing him to yelp and scramble away, looking on in horror at the fork protruding through the wall. The door to the stall is kicked open and John moves to grab the rifle he'd dropped.

"Stay right where you are! Don't even flutter an eyelid or I'll stab you."

John swallows, eyes darting around for an escape. The other man looks like he will follow through on his threat but he can't get caught now! Maybe if I move fast enough.. John lunges to the side..

\--

All Sherlock sees is movement and before he knows what he is doing, he thrusts the fork forward and watches as the blond man's features contort painfully. He stills and drops his gaze down to see the fork in hands, seeing that the prongs have disappeared into the others thigh. The material surrounding is already staining dark and swallowing, he looks back up at blond in shock, releasing his grip. The stranger catches the fork and pulls the end out of his leg, throwing it to side as blood continues to soak through his pants.

Sherlock pales.

"Father!" He shouts, running from the stable and up the paddock. "Father!"

Mr Homes is stood talking to one of the gardeners when he spots his panic-stricken son. "What is it Sherlock?"

"In the stables.." He points back, just in time for his mother to come and see what the fuss is all about. With all eyes on the stable, no one misses the young man that staggers out, dragging his leg behind him and a rifle poised in position to shoot.

"Mr Holmes!"

The landlord recognises the man from the night before but doesn't let that show as he cautiously answers, "Yes?"

"I'm John Watson, of the family Watson. For years you have crippled my family and pushed off our land. You burned out house down!" So much for secrecy. 

"What in the the name of -"

"Prepare to pay for your crimes.." The blond draws closer still, settling the stock and lining up the sight. Unlike last night, he has the landlord clearly in view.

"Good Lord Jesus!"

John smirks and pulls the trigger..

Mrs Holmes screams, Sherlock is frozen in place and Mr Holmes shields himself as the shot goes off. 

Nothing. 

Slowly lowering his arms, Holmes looks down at himself and finds that he is somehow unhurt but.. there was definitely a shot! Looking down across the paddock, Sherlock sees that the gun-weilding blond had gone down and they all rush over.

The rifle is all but split in two and the man holding it is groaning, his face blackened from the soot.

As some of the workers come by and gather around, all Sherlcok can do is watch in bewilderment and for a brief moment a pair of shocking blue eyes meet his. One word is uttered then before consciousness is lost…

"Freedom.."

"Quickly, find Mr Trevor and bring him here. Go! Sherlock come inside."

Sherlock nods and follows his mother but he can't help but look back as he does.

_Those eyes.. what did he mean, 'freedom'?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the positive feedback! Next chapter we will meet Victor Trevor and Sherlock gets an eyeful ;)


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's mothers insufferable friends pay a visit, a chance for Mrs Holmes to show off at his expense. Thankfully the dull afternoon is disturbed and Sherlock is left in awe.

For the next hour following the incident outside, maids and servants bustle around, all walking on pins to satisfy Sherlock's short-tempered mother. The woman is highly strung at the best of times but after this, she is especially snippy. This doesn't hamper Sherlock's curiosity about their prisoner. The injured man had been taken up into one of the unused rooms where his mother personally sees to dressing his wounds; Sherlock joins her to observe.

The worst of the soot had been washed away now, revealing more of the strangers face. Sherlock notes a few faint scars on his cheeks and wonders if the other made a habit of being violent. He looks to be strong however. The evidence of hard labour is clear from the definition of muscle in his arms and stomach. Of course, to treat him properly his clothes had been removed and destroyed, a clean set put aside for later. A simple sheet covers his modesty.

Sherlock had unknowingly closed in on the bed, gaze drifting over the mans form with interest.

"Look at his fingers mother, they are black." Whether they are black from the soot or dirt, it's difficult to tell.

"Never mind that, he’s black of heart too. A lowborn, pestilence of filth."

"If he's so worthless, then why are you bothering to treat his wounds?" A fair question in Sherlock's opinion. The same can be said for the set of clean clothing.

“He needs to be restored to full health so that he can hear his own neck crack when he dangles from the hangman's noose.” His mother sighs as she finishes disinfecting the fork wound on the mans thigh. “He could have picked a better day to intrude upon our peaceful life"

Sherlock frowns. _So that is the fate of this man._ He should hardly be surprised since there was an attempt at murder but to hear it in such a blasé manner doesn't sit well with the young Holmes.

"The ladies are coming by for afternoon tea today. I'm sure they will he horrified to here about this terrible threat."

_Please mother, you will relish the attention, you always do._

Sherlock hates it when his mother's friends come to stay. They are overbearing and have a habit of gushing over him and trying to pair him off with their daughters. He supposes it's better than having business lectures with Victor Trevor. His father had appointed the man to teach Sherlock everything there is to know since his brother is elsewhere and his father is unfit.

“May I be excused, I feel rather sick." He groans without thinking.

“That won’t work with me Sherlock, you are well enough. Those ladies are models of manners and behaviour."

_Nosy old gossips I'd say.._

That afternoon as planned, his mothers friends arrive in their best coats and matching hair styles. They gather in the entertaining room while his mother takes great delight in sharing the news of the day.

"A murderer under your own roof? How horrible!"

"He's the most dirty vicious creature! Unbearable!"

"Good gracious!"

Standing off to the side, hoping to blend into the shadows, Sherlock rolls his eyes. His mother is milking this.

"Did you get a look at him Sherlock?"

_Damn._

"Just a little."

"Sherlock, what is your collar doing?” His mother steps up, gloved fingers fixing the offending collar straight and fasting the top button.

"It's choking me mother!" He hisses.

“I’d rather you choke than look like a peasant - did you hear that?" Footsteps in the hallway. “It must be Victor."

True enough, Victor steps into view, head held high in what Sherlock deems an arrogant manner. With him are three other men.

"We've come for your prisoner Mr Holmes. Good afternoon Mrs Holmes, good afternoon lovely ladies."

“Ah there we are! The sun itself has appeared to brighten our dark day.” Mrs Holmes gushes, releasing Sherlock's collar to take Victor's hands in her own. "My goodness, we were all so frightened."

"Keep calm, you're safe now. Don’t let this stain your sinful card playing and pleasantries."

Sherlock's stomach turns in disgust.

"Hello Sherlock."

"Hello Victor.” The name is forced, eyes averted slightly past the mans head. Victor Trevor is unwelcome in Sherlock’s mind. Appointed as his mentor, the man gloated his own glory in the presence of company but alone, just the two of them, he has cruel tongue and prowls a little to close for Sherlock’s comfort.

"My my, how handsome he is." The ladies unabashedly begin to appraise their new visitor.

"He is an incredible man, educated at the finest of schools as you can imagine. He manages all of my husbands business affairs and is offering guidance to Sherlock."

"Your son's certainly a very lucky young man."

"He is indeed and talented too. Sherlock, do play some violin, the ladies and I would like to hear you."

Sherlock turns to his mother, a silent plea to suggest something else. Unlike her, he hates being the centre of attention. His violin used to be another private refuge for himself, spoiled by such displays as this. “Must I?"

His mothers smile falters, replaced by a tight-lipped one which Sherlock knows is a sign that he's said the wrong thing. "I beg your pardon?"

Victor steps up then, placing a hand on the small of his back. "Come play Sherlock something elegant and melodic that the ladies will enjoy."

_Elegant huh._

Shoulders sagging in defeat, Sherlock makes his way to the window and picks up his instrument, resting it beneath his chin. He begins to play the first song that comes to his head; a slow melody written by a famous composer that everyone should recognise. As he plays he cannot help but despise the women in the room. All their eyes on him is terribly uncomfortable and he entertains the idea of smashing the window and fleeing the room. Is this his life? Is he destined to turn into another Victor Trevor or worse, his mother?

_What a depressing thought. No wonder father drinks so much._

Spurred on by the negative thoughts, Sherlock begins to change the tune, playing harder and increasing the tempo as he breaks into an upbeat tune. A glance to his audience tells him that they don't like it. One of the ladies is even covering her ears. He smiles.

"Sherlock! Good gracious, what on earth are you doing?"

"It's band music mother!"

"Band music?!"

"It's from overseas, a modern masterpiece!”

His mother is outraged, apologising to her friends profusely. Sherlock is highly amused. He continues to play, ignoring Victor's disapproving looks and simply enjoying the moment of chaos...That is until he catches sight of a figure on the staircase that causes him to abruptly stop.

The ladies scream.

Music had woken John from his deep sleep. He was amazed to find himself in one piece and very much alive. When he pulled the trigger earlier, all he remembers seeing is the barrel exploding right before his eyes and the heat on his face.

It hurt to move. Aside from being stabbed in the leg, he assumes he must of been handled pretty roughly too. Sitting up in the comfiest bed he's ever slept in, John takes in the room. Everything looks clean and expensive, even the sheets..

_Jesus fuck I'm naked!_

John pulls the covers tighter around himself, more out of instinct than anything else.

_Sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph. They saw me naked._

It's one thing almost blowing his own head of but it's entirely another thing being stripped of his clothes by rich strangers and oh Christ.. Covering his face with his hands, John mulls over this whole mess.

_Saviour my arse! I bet Harry would love this. I've fucked up. Well and truly. Sorry Da.._

_I've got to get out of here._

Finding the fresh clothes is a blessing but getting them on is a painful endeavour. Every movement and stretch is taxing on his wounds but eventually he manages. Thankfully they fit well enough and feeling a little less exposed John looks for an escape route. He limps over to the door first, fully expecting it to be locked - which it is. Looking out of the window he finds he is on the third floor and as daring as he may be, trying to climb down with an injured leg is likely suicide.

That only leaves one option. Since the music is playing so loudly, hopefully he can get away with this. He rips off a bit of sheet and wraps it around his fist then, throwing all his power into it, drives that fist through the door panel. The wood splinters and cuts his arm where it isn't wrapped but he is successful in creating a hole in which he can reach through and unlock the door.

All John has to do now is get downstairs. He hobbles along using the wall as support and follows the music. He makes it down one flight of stairs without a hitch but his leg is really throbbing. At the top of the second flight he pauses. From this vantage point, he can see right into the room where music is being played and is astonished to find the young Holmes behind a violin. He seems to be enjoying himself too... The momentary lapse of concentration is John's downfall however as suddenly their eyes meet and everyone else, naturally turn to look too.

In a panic, he tries to run the last flight of stairs but stumbles, falling to land at the bottom. He groans and rolls over, then pressure is applied to his chest so he can't move. A booted foot. "Careful boy, your life's worth little as it is."

After squeezing through his mothers friends, Sherlock looks on with astonishment. Last time he laid eyes on their prisoner, he was out cold. Somehow, despite the his injuries, he was close to escaping. Sherlock had never seen anything like it in his life and feels his lips twitch - a ghost of a smile.

Looking up, John recognises the man immediately and begins to thrash wildly despite the limited movement. "You're the bastard that burned my father's house!"

"I've burned many houses in the line of duty, am I meant to remember yours?"

Seething, John thrashes more violently, baring his teeth at the man. "Maybe you'll remember this.” John collects some saliva in his mouth then spits, a gob of it landing on the man's cheek.

Victor calmly signals for the other men present to take over while he stand and wipes his face with a handkerchief. He throws it down at John when finished, along with his gloves.

"Pistols, tomorrow at dawn, now get him upstairs and secure him this time!"

Sherlock lingers in the hallway as the prisoner is dragged back upstairs, following the scene with his eyes, a sense of awe growing within.

“Are you okay Sherlock?” Mr Holmes appears by his side, regarding his son curiously.

Feeling a little heat creep up his neck, Sherlock swallows, grounding himself. “The day has been disturbed father."

Apparently an odd response as his father gives him a long hard look. “Heaven forbid.” Is all he says before wandering off - _probably to his hidden stash of liquor_ , Sherlock muses. One more glance is cast up the stairs as a door is slammed and Sherlock bites his lip, a queer feeling befalling him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning of the duel arrives for John, but not before a nighttime visitor appears with an appealing offer.
> 
> _“Are you worried for him?” Asks a voice behind him. He spins to see his mother standing there. The woman lays a hand on his shoulder. “Victor is of exceedingly good class and honour. He will win this, don’t fret. Soon that dirty savage will have a bullet between his hideous black eyes..."_
> 
> _Sherlock doesn’t hear the rest of his mother’s ‘comforting’. The only words prominent in his heart and mind are: His eyes are neither black nor hideous. They’re as blue as the sky on a summers evening and beautiful besides. Soon those eyes will close though. Soon he’ll be gone._

John paced and reviled, shaking the lock on the door which had been boarded up since his last escape, however his endeavours are fruitless. Somehow he has to get out of this room. With dawn only a few hours away, he can practically hear the cry of the reaper. That Victor Trevor will shoot him right between the eyes and not even flinch. John is resolved not to give him the pleasure if he can help it.

As the hours wear on, his apprehension subsides somewhat, calm determination taking it's place. Every man has to die sometime. At least he will depart this world like a man, confronting his demise head-on, just as a Watson should. After things considered, his father is waiting for him just on the other side. Perhaps his name will be on the lips of bard and storytellers for years to come - the legend, John Watson, cut down in the prime of his youth.

John sits on the bed for a moment to rest his wounded leg and enjoy the fantasy when suddenly his daydream is interrupted by a clattering sound outside of his window. "What the devil?" He mutters, rising from the bed and walking over to investigate. As he leans out he finds himself face-to-face with Sherlock, who has propped a ladder beneath the window and is climbing up it decisively, face shining with fervor in the silver moonlight. John leans back as Sherlock pokes his head into the room.

"Shh!" He says. "I'm running away!"

John can say nothing. Why is Sherlock here? Already in the last twenty-four hours he had betrayed him in the stables, endeavoured to help with the loud violin playing and now.. who knows? He remains stood back and watches as he tumbles into the room, landing with surprising elegance on his feet. Sherlock straightens up, smoothes down his garments, hair and wears a guise of apathy . Something in his eyes betrays him however, John senses his agitation and excitement.

"Pardon me." Sherlock says as he strolls past to one of the dressers. "I need to gather some of my things."

Still John says nothing but when he makes a slight movement towards him, Sherlock jerks away, eyes narrowed. "You're wondering why I'm fleeing." He states, pulling the dresser away from the wall with a huff. "Well I'll fulfil your interest and tell you. I'm running away because I'm advanced." From behind the dresser he pulls out a small wooden box and places it on the bed, rummaging through it. He pulls out photographs, pamphlets with pictures of sailing ships and a peculiar ornamental skull.

"I'm advanced," He continues, "and I'm going to a modern place. You're not the only one who is trapped. If I stay here I'll turn into one of my mother's stuffy friends. Absurd. I'm smarter than that and I _crave_ stimulation."

With consideration he places a pamphlet on the bed, turning it so John can see it clearly. At the top of the paper is printed a single word, 'LAND.' John declines to look, the paper amounts to nothing. The printed words may as well be ancient hieroglyphics.

"Take a gander at it." Sherlock clips impatiently, holding the paper up before John's eyes. John squints at it, moving his eyes back and forth, pretending to read. John sees the comprehension dawn in Sherlocks eyes and humiliation washes over him, leaving his face flushed.

"You can't read." Sherlock clicks his tongue in a way that makes John incensed. He doesn't want or need his sympathy. "It says land."

"Land?" The word ignites a flame of interest inside John, that he can't hide.

"Yes, land!" Sherlock says, clearly pleased with his reaction. "They've such a large amount of it, they give it away for free!"

"Who?"

"They do. In America." He regards John for an indication of understanding. John gazes back vacantly. "Surely you've heard of America? On the opposite side of the sea? It's extremely advanced and-"

John reaches out and snatches the pamphlet from him. "Where did you get this?"

"A man with a moustache gave it to me."

John grunts and drops the paper back onto the bed. "Oh wonderful! A man with a moustache! You must be out of your mind. No land is given away, in any part of the world."

"In America it is," Sherlock says with certainty, retrieving the pamphlet from the bed and folding it carefully. "I can't be happy here, but in America - I'll have a place of my own and I can do as I please."

John laughs. He has to admire his spirit but obviously he has been touched by the faeries. "You won't get to America, look at you. You're all cheekbones and turned up collars and ribbons. You'll be eaten alive!"

Sherlock raises one eyebrow and makes a stride towards him, his hands on his waist in a slightly haughty manner. "It wasn't collars or ribbons that stabbed you in leg." He says with self-satisfaction.

"No, it was a frightened brat with his head in the clouds. Freedom? Land? Why do you even need land? You own half of this land as it is - took it from good folk, uncaring of the miseries it caused."

" _I_ didn't take it!"

"No, you simply live here all fancied up on rent and crushed spirits." Chest puffed out, face set firm, John turns away from Sherlock but out of the corner of his eye he sees a look cross his face that looks a lot like admiration. A moment later, Sherlock steps closer and raises his hand slightly, as though he might reach out and touch his arm. But then he withdraws and folds his arms.

"If it's land you want," He says softly, "come with me."

Adopting a professional manner, he walks over to the bed and picks up a picture of a ship, which is shoved under John's nose. "Great ships sail out of Southampton." He tells him. "I dare not travel alone. I could do with some protection."

"I'm almost certain you'll be fine, just arm yourself with a pitchfork." There's derision is John's tone but he cannot deny his interest is definitely piqued.

"Listen. You're fearless. I've seen evidence of your valour myself. You came here to shoot my father. The marks on your knuckles tell me you are no stranger to fighting. You broke through a panel in the door. You could be useful to me."

"Useful?" The thought fills John with a feeling of significance. Already he fancies himself fighting off any aggressor that wishes to take advantage of the rich, unworldly boy. Sort of like a body guard, and Sherlock would be so very grateful and -

"Yes. You can be my serving boy."

John's eyes narrow, shaking his head solemnly as visions of heroism fade. "I see. So I'd clean your extravagant shoes and bring you tea?"

"Precisely! You're catching on rather quickly, I thought I may have to define it for you."

John reaches out and grabs him by the shoulder, height be damned, and draws him in. Sherlock gasps. Low and through clenched teeth, John speaks. "I'd spit in your tea, throw it over your damn head even. You can wear your shoes in your arse too before I serve you!"

Sherlock stares down at John without flinching. “I’ll pay you.”

Shaking his head, John pushes Sherlock away, backing off and pointing to the open window. “Get out. I have a duel in the morning and I intend to honour it.” He scoops up the wooden box and pushes it into Sherlocks hands. Sherlock grasps it with wide eyes, not expecting a refusal. Did the boy not want his freedom? His life? The surprise melts into a look of mocking.

“You won’t win against Victor. Last time you touched a gun you nearly blew your head off."

“The gun was broken."

“Oh please. If by some miracle you were to win, I wouldn’t celebrate for long. You are sentenced to execution by hanging, or have you forgotten? You came and attempted to kill my father, that’s a criminal offence.” His features soften a little. “I’m offering you freedom."

John chuckles to himself and proceeds to manoeuvre Sherlock toward the window. “I’m not coming with you to chase a fairy tale. I live in the real world. This land is my home and I’m going to stay here until I die."

Tucking his belongings under his arm, Sherlock climbs out of the window, ascending two steps before pausing. “Until you die? In around five hours then. Farewell John.”

When Sherlock reaches the bottom of the ladder, he gives it a nudge and catches it before it can fall and alert the house with all the commotion. Glancing around, he doesn’t see anyone around. After replacing the ladder in one of the outbuildings in the courtyard behind the house, he stashes his belongings beneath the straw in the stable, giving his horse a sad pet before returning to the house. Creeping through the kitchen, he discovers his father tucked away in the corner, sneaking a drink from his flask. He can’t help but smile. It would seem they had both caught each other out and not for the first time. Sherlock walks over and leans against the wall beside him. For several minutes, silence reigns, the elder Holmes probably lost in a haze while Sherlock gathers his thoughts.

“Father, I must confess something to you. I intend to leave this place. Permanently. Despite my promise to marry Miss Adler.” An arranged and unwanted marriage it may be, but the guilt still makes a brief appearance. “Do you despise me for it?"

At first Sherlock thinks his father hasn’t heard him but then the elder man looks up at him, grey eyes searching his face then gesturing something of an affirmation to himself. “I always knew you were special, Sherlock. You’ve always a bit of a rebellious streak and curious nature. I also know you are unhappy."

Sherlocks eyes mist over and he blinks rapidly several times.

“I’m not the best of men to give you advice but, follow your heart, your instinct. Don’t get caught up in this,” His father gestures around, “-mollifying fog of misery. Do what you must do."

Sherlock sucks in a tremulous breath, hearing not only the words but the meaning behind them. His father is releasing him with his blessing. The tears clouding his eyes roll down his cheeks. He doesn’t know what to say so says nothing. As they stand together in companionable silence, Sherlock knows this is the last night he will spend in this house, under his fathers protection. This is his last night of boyhood and his heart feels like it is breaking, even as it celebrates.

\--

John sits on the side of the bed, hands clasped beneath his bowed head. He hadn’t slept all night. Apprehension, crude and cool kept him conscious. Again and again the presumable scene he would meet plays in his psyche, Sherlocks separating words drying his throat. Over and over the likely scene he would meet plays in his mind, Sherlocks parting words drying his throat. Even if he survived this duel, he would be hanged anyway. How would that feel? Which is worse? A bullet is sounding like a more appealing way to go. If he is hanged it’s just luck whether he his neck will snap and kill him instantly or whether he’ll simply dangle there struggling, a macabre dance with an audience.

.. Would the curly haired boy, the daft, ridiculous boy that he is - feel pity? Or would he enjoy it. Why does that even matter?

Hearing some shuffling footsteps outside the window, he strains his ears. A strange yet familiar noise - metallic? Approaching the window, he stares out into the darkness. Dawn is on it’s way, the pale grey light of it bleeding into the horizon beyond the distant hills. Far below him, in a field near the house he just about makes out the silhouettes of two figures. His heart stops when he realises what they are doing.

_Grave-diggers._ No doubt digging a hole big enough to hold his remains. He swallows.

Suddenly the door behind him bangs open and two men step into the room, grabbing him by the arms and dragging him out. “Time to feed you up. Time for your last meal."

A short time later the same two men lead John outside to the field behind the house where the grave-diggers were earlier. The fog, dense and cold, lingers so low that John feels like he’s walking through a nightmare he can’t wake up from. To his right, Mr Holmes emerges and greets him with a pleasant smile.

“Good morning son. I hope the breakfast was to your liking. How did you enjoy your sausage and eggs?”

John can see the concern is genuine and manages a smile in return, despite the man being the reason for his imminent demise. “It was the finest meal I’ve ever had.” He answers sincerely. It really was, even if he barely nibbled at it.

“I’m glad to hear that. I’m here to serve as your second in this.. boorishness."

“I appreciate that sir.” What on earth does that mean?

From the parlour window, Sherlock watches as John vanishes into the thick haze. A sick feeling churns his stomach. He is going to die, in that there is no doubt. Unpracticed with guns, outwardly debilitated by the fog and up against Victor Trevor. Sherlock hopes his death will be quick and merciful.

“Are you worried for him?” Asks a voice behind him. He spins to see his mother standing there. The woman lays a hand on his shoulder. “Victor is of exceedingly good class and honour. He will win this, don’t fret. Soon that dirty savage will have a bullet between his hideous black eyes..."

Sherlock doesn’t hear the rest of his mother’s ‘comforting’. The only words prominent in his heart and mind are: _His eyes are neither black nor hideous. They’re as blue as the sky on a summers evening and beautiful besides. Soon those eyes will close though. Soon he’ll be gone._

Beneath a large oak, the man serving as Victors second, opens an ornate case. Lying inside is two long pistols, the likes of which John has never seen before in his life. His stomach lurches at the sight of them, especially when the box is extended to him, giving him first choice. One comforting thought is neither of these are likely to explode in his face. He picks the one closest.

“Count away fifteen paces.”

Mr Holmes turns to John and guides him to turn around, steering him through the fog. “I just want you to know boy,” the man mutters, “I knew nothing of your family or their eviction. I’m truly sorry for their pain, I understand why you came here to murder me and can’t blame you at all."

It occurs to John that he should speak some words of forgiveness but there isn’t time. Ten more steps. Five. One.

“TURN!”

Mr Holmes dashes away and John whirls around in a panic. “I can’t see anything! Wait - I can’t see a thing!"

“I can.” The words reach him through the murk. The bullet would follow.

Wildly, John waves the gun around, squinting to see movement but failing. His body tense and shaking, he waits. Waits to be torn by a bullet.

Nothing happens.

Another sound gets through the quiet, a bang of wagon wheels. From out of the white murk blasts a two-situated truck, drawn by a radiant dark steed. At the reins.. is Sherlock! His curls are brushed off his face, wild and untamed. As he trundles up to John and stops the stallion, John can see that the truck is heaped high with gear and trunks.

"You don't travel daintily then?" He smiles, regardless of the critical circumstance he is in.

“Never. Now come on, think. You have a brain - as inferior as it may be,” Sherlock begins in a tone John hates, “all the land in the world or a bullet in the head?"

“Leave me alone Sherlock!”

“As you wish.” Sherlock lifts his crop to crack it down across the horse just as Victor and his men emerge from the fog, charging towards John. Heart fluttering, John looks first at them - his death sentence, then at Sherlock. Something flips in his stomach and he’s dropping his pistol, diving for the wagon. His wounded leg makes it difficult but he manages to struggle aboard. Victor Trevor catches up and hesitates as he looks up as Sherlock in shock.

“Sherlock. This is our duel."

Sherlock simply looks back with an expression of disgust. “Goodbye Victor."

The disgust melts when he locks eyes with his father and he waves, smiling sadly. Then the crop is cracked again, the cart lunging forward, causing John to tumble into the luggage.

“STOP THEM!” Mrs Holmes screams from behind, skirts in hand as she runs. All Sherlock can hear is the clatter of the cart as they speed away though and overwhelmed with a surge of alleviation, he laughs, uninhibited. The laughter of a spirit set free. Moments later, John joins him, whooping loudly into the air as the Holmes estate is swallowed by the fog behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to come out. I wasn't best pleased with quality I was producing and have made strides to improve myself. What this means is, I'm rushing to get chapters out on a weekly basis like I was, it's just not doable with full-time working and other commitments. What it does mean however, is longer and better quality chapters!!
> 
> Anyway I hoped you liked this chapter, I had fun writing the boys bickering and we're just beginning to see little glimpses of their inevitable affection.
> 
> As always, thank you for the comments and kudos, it really means a lot to me!
> 
> Come and check me out on tumblr, say hi or whatever :) [My tumblr](http://watsonyourbed.tumblr.com)


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The voyage begins and bring out on the open seas turns out to be an eye-opener for both John and Sherlock. Still, their differences are still an issue and even become an obstacle. Tempers flare and a new face only adds more fuel to the situation. On a seemingly endless ocean, their patience is pushed to the limit.

John watches the fluttering of ivory canvas above then turns to see the sun spilling golden light onto the sea, rippling and shifting in glorious patterns of aureate waves. The sky, a wash of pink and yet more golds, is clear of all but a few clouds, dark in colour but not threatening, play host to a flock of birds flitting across, silhouetted and black like shadow puppets on a screen of the biggest kind. So different from the unforgiving grey seafront of his homeland that battered the shore, this sea is beautiful and vast, stretching on forever.

They are on the deck of a magnificent schooner, the fine craftsmanship like something out of a picture book. It would be the perfect setting if not for the fact that John is surrounded by the overbearing wealth of first-class passengers. Ladies with parasols strolled the decking, hanging off the arms of the well-dressed gentlemen, cigar smoke mingling with salt-sea air. The grace and leisure is lost on John but Sherlock easily fits in, perched at dining table unmindful of John's discomfort. Before boarding, John was given a necktie and jacket, no doubt the most expensive material he has ever worn, all so that Sherlock could talk their way into a first class ticket each. Now John is to play serving boy to the infuriating Holmes for the entirety of their trip, standing behind Sherlock and awaiting instruction.

Sherlock, with aristocratic delicacy, taps the edge of his cup me like some well-trained buskers dog, John is leaning over and refilling his cup.

"Thank you boy."

"My name is John." Is the irritated reply and as he draws back, John makes sure to nudge his elbow out, causing a little to tea to slosh out over the edge of the cup.

"Don't cause a scene. You should be grateful you're even here considering how much I paid for your ticket." Sherlock clucks his tongue and offers a fake smile to the curious glances sent their way.

"I don't feel grateful, so no."

"Right now you are my serving boy and what you feel is irrelevant."

John glares down at Sherlock's lips, which are currently pulled into a smirk. One punch... that's all it would take then maybe he wouldn't be so high and mighty... John stifles the thought. What use would it do aside from get himself in trouble, it's not worth it, even if Sherlock does deserve it. "I agreed to do this until we reach America but this bloody ocean never ends. It's a watery prison!"

Sherlock laughs at that, in his own mocking way. "You see but do not observe. The ocean is a jail to you but to me, it's doorway to a wonderful future of freedom. The ocean is majestic."

"Feel free to go take a dive into it then, save me some greif."

John's insult is wasted since their little discussion is interrupted by a soft, feminine clearing of the throat. 'Forgive if I am intruding." A woman smiles at Sherlock, her eyes sparkling from underneath her dark lashes. She is a very attractive woman with high cheekbones and full reddened lips. Her attire speaks of her wealth but unlike most of the ladies John had seen, she made no attempt to disguise her shapely figure. Sherlock seems riveted. "I wondered if you would enjoy enjoy a stroll along the deck."

John bristles at that for some reason. "He's drinking his tea."

"Obviously boy." And there's Sherlock's condescending tone again. "You're American." He addresses the woman, his interest notably piqued.

"London born actually but I do like to get around. My name is Ms. Irene Adler."

"I'm Sherlock Holmes and a stroll would be delightful Ms. Adler." Sherlock rises to his feet, tea forgotten and offers his arm for Irene to hold onto. John watches them walk away in silent fury. Fancy asking me to be serving boy and then totting off with the first woman that bats her eyes at him! Well he wanted a serving boy, that's what he's going to get!

John quickly scurries to catch up with the pair and makes a point to fall behind them at a mere pace below.

"America is wonderful, isn't it, Ms Adler? I mean, from what I have heard it's magnificent and modern." Sherlock's tone is nauseating to John, more nauseating than the rocking motion of the ship when they first set out. Irene of course doesn't seem to mind.

"I don't know anywhere else in the world that could hold a torch to America." She replies, casting an irritated glance over her shoulder at John who was leaning close to listen in. "It is modern, it has has culture and when you set foot onto its land, you will feel liberated."

"What about the land?" John interjects.

"Pardon?"

"Sherlock's got in his head that they're dishing out free land."

"Sherlock is absolutely right. Oklahoma territory to be precise. The finest land in the world, mark my words. Crops will flourish and livestock will thrive. You can't get a better offer anywhere else."

At this Sherlock looks back at John with a self-satisfied expression. "I told you boy."

"Of course, you will need to get yourself a wagon, supplies and a horse as soon as you step foot off this ship. It's around thousand miles away this land. Whatever you do, don't lose time in Boston. I assume you have money." Irene glance switches between the two men, lingering warily on John. Sherlock turns to him.

"I'd like to speak to Ms. Adler alone, see that the lunch I asked for has arrived and keep the flies away."

John narrows his eyes. Brushed off again and for what, the oh so wonderful Ms. Adler and her American tales? "Why?"

"I will not repeat myself boy."

John stares at him for a long moment then shakes his head. Turning and walking away he rips off the necktie that has been suffocating him, relishing the horrified looks from the other passengers. With a flick of his wrist, the necktie is sent overboard, descending into the waves. Curse Sherlock anyway. The Holmes family may have tied ropes around the necks of his ancestors for centuries but he'd be damned if he allowed Sherlock to do the same to him.

Sherlock watches John walk away with amusement. As brazen as the boy is, he looks quite the petulant child with his lip protruding the way it is. He soon turns his attention back to Irene though, realising that this woman could be quite useful to him in the days ahead. She knows a lot about America and has valuable experience after all. It can't hurt. "Ms. Adler, I do have money, or at least I will have money when I trade in my spoons."

Irene peers back at him with intrigue. "…spoons?"

"Yes. Very old spoons that have been in my family for generations, they are made from silver. I plan to sell them when I get to America you see."

"I cannot see how that would be a problem, I could actually recommend you some merchants who will give you an honest price."

"That would be.. How can I thank you?" Things are definitely working in Sherlock's favour, what were the odds of meeting someone as knowledgeable as Irene Adler on this voyage?

"The pleasure is all mine Mr Holmes."

Such manners too. Not at all like the ruffian he had dragged aboard him.

When Sherlock eventually parts from Irene's company and returns to his table, his pleasant mood evaporates when he finds John sitting in his seat, drinking his tea, shirt unbuttoned and tie discarded. Not only that, but he is breaking pieces of his sandwich off and stuffing them into his mouth. With his dirty hands.

"What are you doing?"

"Eating your lunch." Johns shrugs the matter off as if it is quite normal behaviour. Sherlock takes a calming inhale.

"So I see. Where's my father's necktie?"

"Oh that thing? Swimming with the fishes. It was choking me.

Slowly and with carefully practiced control, Sherlock takes the seat opposite John and watches him. Is he even chewing or is he washing the food down with tea? It's difficult to tell but other passengers are starting to notice. "You're upset." He probes. "Everything I said is turning out to be true and you don't like it." He tries not to sound too smug about that.

John snorts rudely. "Oh yes, the wonderful flowering crops! That woman has you right charmed, she'll be in your pants before we dock and it'll be you dropping anchor."

All the blood drains from Sherlock's face and now it's his turn to feel nauseated. Did John just imply…? Instead of rising to the jab, he snatches the platter of sandwiches from out of John's reach. "The word you're looking for is flourished.” John's just jealous, he decides. No self-respecting girl would give a peasant a second glance.

"Look, we're heading to a place of promise and hope. We'll each find our own happiness there. You'll follow your path and I'll follow mine. We needn't see each other again." The words had meant to be encouraging but somehow, speaking them aloud brings a stab of sadness to Sherlock. Ridiculous really. Why would the thought of saying goodbye to a servant make him feel melancholy. Must be the sea air. Clearing his throat he back-peddles a bit. "For now, you are among polite people and as much as I agree they can be intrusive and insufferable at times, we can't let them think you are anything other than a serving boy."

John pauses at that and catches Sherlock's eyes. "Am I anything other than a serving boy?"

Sherlock feels heat crawl up from under his collar at that and shifts in his seat. That's not what he had meant, honestly did -

"May I see your tickets please." Both boys attentions snap to the burly guard that casts a shadow over their table.

Oh no. It was over. With a sinking feeling, Sherlock looks to John. Maybe the boy would have a flash of insight. A dash of brilliance.

John just shakes his head.

Wonderful.

They end up in the bowels of the ship where the poor families are huddled together in clusters, each set of eyes darkened around the rims through lack of natural light. There is little room to breathe, let alone move and the air is thick with the scent of body odour and other bodily fluids that John doesn’t want to think about.The creaking of the ship is far more prominent down here and suddenly the grand schooner doesn’t feel so safe anymore. Taking the lead, John leads Sherlock through the crush of families and crying babies. eventually finding an unoccupied space between two cargo crates. While John eases himself down, Sherlock is reluctant to sit at all. He does have a lot to say however.

“Well thank you very much. This is just fantastic.I had those people completely fooled until your ruined it with your rude table manners."

“Bollocks. I’m surprised we lasted this long. People are always trying it on up there, they know what to look for."

“To think I saved your life too. You owe me for this, your serving duties do not end here.” Sherlock sniffs, refusing to look at his companion in favour of glaring at the wall.

“I owe you shite all.” John sings, plucking open the top buttons of his shirt. “..and I’m not sorry for throwing your fathers necktie overboard. Damn thing was choking me."

“It had some use then.” Sherlock bites back. Around them, the rest of the passengers begin to prepare for sleep, ridding themselves of their outer clothing and spreading out pitiful threadbare blankets. Sherlock removes his jacket and gingerly sets it on the floor to serve as pillow, then begins to unlace his boots. John, being used to such sleeping conditions and worse, simply kicks off his shoes and tucks his arm under his head as he lays down. Of course Sherlock has to huff and puff before finally settling down, curling in on himself like a cat. This is absurd! Oh how he misses his downy bed and satin sheets! All they smelled of was the fresh country air from being hung out. He groans mournfully and flips over onto his back. The ship continues to creak but more audible, is John’s breathing and Sherlock is suddenly aware of their close proximity.

Even though they are several inches apart Sherlock can feel the heat from John's body radiating through their clothes to his own body. He lets his head fall to the side and observes John. The boy has his eyes closed, his body is twisted in a way that can’t be very comfortable but Sherlock notices how the muscles in John’s thigh swells against the fabric of his trousers with every breath and wonders if it is as firm and round as it looks. Of course as soon as the thought surfaces, Sherlock is quick to shove it out of his mind. He should not be thinking about such things. Especially about a peasant boy with dirt under his fingernails, eats like a pig and who cannot read. Besides that, if it wasn’t for him, Sherlock would be sleeping on a far more comfortable berth upstairs instead of this pit of filth.

Resigning himself to the fact that this is truly his bed for the night, Sherlock closes his eyes. The rhythmic sway of the ship might just lull him to sleep… then a strange moan breaks the spell and his eyes fly open again.

A couple have decided to make love.

Heat fills Sherlock’s cheeks and he turns away from the noise, a hand covering his ear. Is this what people do on ships? In front of everyone? There’s children on board for christ’s sake! Had they no shame? Sherlock had never even seen his mother and father kiss and yet these people… he shudders and squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them again, he is met with blue eyes and pink cheeks. John is awake and is as embarrassed and uncomfortable as Sherlock. As they listen to the muffled sounds of passion, heavy breathing and moans, Sherlock finds himself becoming more aware of how close John is. The unfamiliar sounds are humiliating but at the same time, he can swear his body feels hotter. It seems to go on forever and neither he nor John move, or scarcely breathe.

Then it’s over and not too soon. They both sigh their relief and Sherlock clears his throat. “Could you. Could you move over?” His voice sound strange to his own ears. Strained.

“I can’t, there’s nowhere for me to go."

At that point the ship pitches, and throws Sherlock over, landing half on top of John.

“What are you doing?!” John shoves at him. Why was he so angry? It was an accident. Suddenly the claustrophobia gets too much. Sherlock pushes himself off and throws his head back.

“I’m tired of this stupid ship and this endless ocean! I’m hungry and you ate all my sandwiches.”

John, seemingly recovered from his little outburst opens his mouth to respond but one look at Sherlock’s face send him into a fit of laughter, enough to have him clutching at his belly and disturbing the other passengers.

I could really hate him, Sherlock thinks and in annoyance, kicks out at the ridiculous boy. Instead of shrinking back in pain, John only laughs harder. Thats the moment Sherlock decides that he already hate the boy and turns his back on him, fighting the light feeling in his throat that just might be the beginning of a laugh.

Stupid peasant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh those boys! Hope you are still enjoying this, please leave a comment, I'd love to hear from you :)


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock arrive in Boston. Initially, hopes are high and the novelty has Sherlock in high spirits. The excitement is soon overcast by unexpected scenes of poverty and a murder in broad daylight. 
> 
> _To add to their misery, the rain begins to pelt down twice as hard as it was before. Crowds of people push past and horses nearly trample them as they stand their with what little luggage the vagrants didn’t take. A protective instinct arises in John, much like the one he had entertained back in England. Sherlock would not survive these streets alone. John needs to take action and now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm sorry it's been a while. I hope those who are still reading enjoy this chapter. I really appreciate feedback so please leave a comment and let me know how you're finding this fic and if y'all still interested!

"Oh woman high of fame.  
For thee I shall not die!  
Though foolish men you slay,  
A better man am I..."

Timothy Holmes had been in the tavern of just under an hour and is now already feeling the effects of the few shots of brandy he had knocked back. Reaching into his pocket, he withdraws a well-worn piece of paper. A quick glance around the establishment reveals that he can read this letter privately enough, though the words are already well embedded into his mind. He spreads it onto the counter top and allows his eyes to drift over the familiar handwriting once more.

_Dearest Father,_

_I write to you alone. I am traveling out to Boston and although I am excited, I will admit that I am also a little anxious. But you've always spoken of freedom and now I have the chance to take it. I will miss you, Father, but I will carry your spirit with me and when I step off this boat and onto American soil, I will think of you. My dreams are almost within my reach, do not fear for me._

_Your youngest son, Sherlock_

Timothy smiles at the words then tucks the letter back into his breast pocket. He misses Sherlock already. The boy is so different to his elder brother and his mother. Always curious, inquisitive and clever. Timothy had noted the boys unhappiness long ago and was at a loss of what to do about it. Now it seems, the boy has carved his own path and he can only hope, he finds the happiness he seeks.

The ship berths alongside a bustling port amidst a horrendous storm that blackens the skies overhead and pours sheets of grey rain down on the crowds below. The soaked, chilled passengers depart from the ship only to stands in clustered queues, clutching their luggage and small children as they await to speak with an Immigration officer. John struggles in line behind Sherlock, hauling along the ridiculous amount of luggage he had decided to bring. “Where’s your dear new friend ‘Ms Adler’, Sherlock?” John asks as their turn to face the Immigration officers finally arrives. Heart pounding in his chest, he can’t help but fear being turned away. They may be deemed unworthy and then what? “I think she’s deserted us.” He adds, not bothering to hide his sarcasm.

Sherlock doesn’t answer and instead stands, attempting to straighten out his clothes - rumpled from days spent squashed together on the ship - and tucks a few unruly curls behind his ears. He notices John watching him and answers the unspoken question. “I want to look presentable when I talk to the officer. Appearance is important to these people.” Opening his mouth to speak, John is cut off by an excited exclamation from Sherlock. “There!” He points at one of the doorways at the far end of the room. “There’s Ms. Adler! She’s waving to us. Come along, John, we must hurry."

“That’s what I’ve been trying to get you to do.” John mutters as he wars yet again with the luggage, following Sherlock to the doorway where Ms. Adler is waiting and speaking with an Immigration Officer.

“Sherlock, John.” She smiles. “I was wondering when I might see you, I’ve got your documents ready - just tell them your last names.”

“Watson.” John rasps, allowing a bag to slip of his shoulder and fall to his feet.

“Both of you?” The officers questions, turning his attention to Sherlock.

“Yes, they’re brothers.” Adler lies smoothly, giving the officer a most charming look. John’s skin prickles nervously, there’s no way anyone would believe they are kin. Sherlock is about to protest when the crowd surges and his words are lost in the chorus of shouting. Impatiently, the officers shoves two landing cards into John’s hands. He looks down at them in disbelief. This is it. Their tickets to freedom.

Adler is already off and striding through the crowd with Sherlock close behind her. With a sigh John picks up the bags and curses Sherlock, that damn woman and his own stupidity for agreeing to carry the luggage. In fact there’s nothing stopping John from dropping it all. They are on land now and he certainly isn’t here to play servant boy. This is the land of opportunity and here is where he’ll find his dreams - and when that happens, he’ll tell Sherlock to carry his own luggage to hell and back.

Emerging from the Immigration centre is like entering a new world. Bombarded by a thousands new sights, smells and sounds, John barely notices the rain lashing down into his face. He wants to take it all in at once but the crowd is so thick and constantly moving, jostling him from every angle as he fights to follow Sherlock and the woman. Aside from the crowds, they also have merchants and peddlers pestering them, preying on the wave of new immigrants and their confusion. A wad of pamphlets are shoved under John’s nose. “Get your maps! Maps to hotels! Jobs!”

“Don’t get tempted Mr Watson.” Ms Adler calls over her shoulder. “I know their games and they’ll rob you blind.” Irene seems to glide through the crowd with ease, Sherlock and John tagging along behind her. John can’t help the reluctant gratitude that they have a guide, even if he doesn’t like the way Sherlock clings onto her every word. Sherlock appears to be in his element, flushed with excitement despite the chilling rain that has soaked through his clothes. The bastard still manages to look good with his hair plastered to his face, John notes grimly. They fall into step with one another and Sherlock turns to smile brightly at John. “I’m here John. I’m in America. I finally made it.”

John simply grunts, shifting the weight of a particularly heavy trunk higher on his back.

“Yes you both certainly have arrived.” Ms Adler cuts in. “Though I must remind you, the pace is rather quick here and we must hurry along. I’ll get you to a suitable hotel right away, just leave it all to me Sherlock.” A small, ratty looking boy suddenly appears, and lifts a hand to tug at Sherlock’s sleeve. John doesn’t think he’s seen anyone look so dirty and unkempt before, not even in back at home in Chelms. The grime that covers the boy must be months or even old. His heart sinks. What kind of people were Americans?

The boy hovers around them, hanging onto Sherlock’s sleeve. “Hey mister.” He says. “Need a job?"

Irene turns and swats at the boys arm. “Shoo! Go and bother someone else.” But the boy’s grip is relentless and with his other hand, reaches for John too.

“How about you? Ya need work? Lodging’? Ya need to see the ward boss. Ya can’t get nothin’ without him, he’s the biggest man in Boston!” The boy loses his balance and falls to his knees and John has to respect his determination as he keeps hold of both he and Sherlock - the latter trying to pull his sleeve free with wide eyes. Finally Irene stops and and grabs the boy by the scruff of his neck, flinging him aside and into the gutter before continuing on as if he were just a bothersome fly. John looks back, watching the boy pick himself up of the dirt and turn his attention to the next group.

When John turns back to the pair in front of him, he notices the awe on Sherlocks face as he gazes at Irene and feels himself glare at the woman. Sherlock, oblivious to John’s darkened mood, announces his gratitude. “Thank goodness for you, Ms Adler. Whatever would we do without you."

“Whatever would we do without you.” John mimics in a singsong voice, dripping with sarcasm.

Several feet further, they the three of them turn onto a less crowded street John sighed his relief when Irene slowed her pace. The street, much like the rat-boy from before, appears filthy and grimy. He stares in shock at the smut-blackened buildings, the slew of litter and rotting food that filled the gutters. Even Chelms had been cleaner than this, as poor as folk were. Everyone always pulled together to make sure the streets were clear and people respected their houses. The people he sees huddles in doorways here though, it’s like they’re too weary to care. It’s…sad.

John suddenly feels chilled. This is isn’t right. Isn’t this the land of opportunity? Why are these people suffering with no roof over their heads when land and homes being given away for free? He glances over at Sherlock to see if he too was uneasy. He turns toward him and John sees the same misgivings and fear mirrored in his eyes - such a contrast to the excitement only a few short minutes ago. For a moment, John considers offering a few words of reassurance, that things can only get better. He bites his tongue. Sherlock is proud. Far too proud for his own good. He would never admit being fearful and would only make John feel foolish so why bother? Let the amazing Ms Adler soothe him.

As soon as the thought surfaces, Irene suddenly stops and John is worried he’d said some of that aloud until he spots two figures ahead, blocking their path. These men made the boy from before seem clean and their expression remind John of the wild dogs that would sometimes terrorise the village. Feral. Dropping his luggage, he instinctively reaches for Sherlock and pulls him behind him.

“Ms Adler?” One of the thugs purr.

“Yes?” She replies carefully. The fear in her voice is poorly masked.

“Welcome back.” Both men offer toothless grins, then before either John or Sherlock can act, pistols are pulled and several shots pierce the quiet. Irene clutches her chest and crumples, falling face down into the road. All the colour drains from Sherlock’s face and he grabs at John’s arm. “J-John. Do something. Oh god. They shot her.”

John’s mind spins, several options of what action to take presenting themselves then fleeing just as quick. Nothing can be done for Irene, that much is clear. The killers disappear in the blink of an eye and at the same time, vagrants emerge from the shadows and being looting her body like scavengers. Time seems to stand still as John and Sherlock look on in horror, feet rooted to the ground.

“My spoons!” Sherlock cries out and John sees the silverware tumble out of Irene’s clothing, quickly snatched up by thieving hands. Sherlock lunges forward, knees sinking into the mud as he desperately grabs for the them, John following and knocking the others out of the way. Their efforts are futile. These people must have years experience and every single piece is snatched and they scurry away with their wares, vanishing once again into the shadows. Wearily, John lifts himself up from the mud and offers his hand to Sherlock.

“I have no money now.” Sherlock breathes, kneeling defeated in the mire. “Those spoons were all I had. I guess this is my punishment."

Grabbing his hand, John pulls Sherlock up to his feet and places a hand on each of his shoulders. He is trembling violently from the cold. “Punishment? For pursuing your dream?” He says gently - far more gentle than he had ever spoken to Sherlock before.

“Those spoons were my mothers. I stole them from her the morning I ran away.”

To add to their misery, the rain begins to pelt down twice as hard as it was before. Crowds of people push past and horses nearly trample them as they stand their with what little luggage the vagrants didn’t take. A protective instinct arises in John, much like the one he had entertained back in England. Sherlock would not survive these streets alone. John needs to take action and now. His eyes comb the crowd until he spots the rat-boy that Irene had tossed into the gutter.

“You!” John shouts over the noise. “Come here."

“John, what are you-"

The boy is at their sides within seconds, hands stuffed into the pockets of his oversized pants. “What d’ya want?"

“What’s your name, lad?"

“They call me Billy."

“I’m John Watson and this is Sherlock.. my brother.” John ignores Sherlocks scowl. “I have some questions."

“Go on.."

“I wanna know who this ward boss it and I want to where I can find him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up next: An encounter with the ward boss - Jim Moriarty.


End file.
